Free Still Life with Plums by Marie Manilla

quite some time.
    I went to the alcove to confer with my spouse. Hector was pacing, as usual, but I felt certain he wouldn’t mind the intrusion. I edged as close to the wall as possible to stay out of his path, and told Felipe the bad news. Today, however, he gave me nothing. Not a word. Not a blink.
    “Aw, come on Felipe,” I said. “Don’t be so tight-lipped.”
    Still he stared straight ahead.
    “Maybe you’re busy,” I finally said. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
    Which I did, and the next day, and the day after that, but for six days he said nothing.
    Stumped, I crossed my arms and stole a glance of the twins. “Your father has been in quite a mood,” I said, but their eyes were as vacant as their father’s.
    I jumped when Pocked María opened the door.
    “Sorry,” she said. “I was looking for Hector.”
    “Hector?” I said, scanning the room. I hadn’t even noticed his absence. “Try the bathroom?”
    “Good idea,” she said, and left.
    I looked once more at my husband, my children, but they just stared through me like snapshots. Two dimensional, flat-finished. That’s all.
    I left the alcove and shut the door tight.
    María leaned out the front door calling, “Hector! Hector!”
    “Not in the bathroom?” I said.
    She pulled back in, “No. Or the kitchen. The bedrooms. It’s dark outside, Ana. Where could he be?”
    “I’ll take a look around the yard,” I said, slipping past her. Scratching my elbow, I stepped from the porch and walked around the house calling, “Hector! Hector!” Gringa came to me instead, ramming her cold nose into my ankle. I scooped her up and scratched her forehead. “What have you done with our Hector?” I said, her tail thumping against my side. I set the dog down and started walking our route to the gallery. Where else did Hector know to go?
    So this was it. Soon there would be no more walks to work. The uncles would put an end to my job, and poor Hector would be tucking flyers under windshield wipers or buffing fenders at the car wash.
    Still, it felt good to be out in the warm night under bright stars. I had never taken this route in the dark. I peered in windows at the Gonzales children gathered in their kitchen for a late supper. The father hoisted a toddler into a high chair while his wife flailed a dish towel and yelled. Two houses down, through the screen door, I could see the Medina boys lying belly down on the floor, heads propped on their arms watching TV in the dark. Across the street Spinster Avila sat alone on her sofa crocheting pot holders. On her porch, dozens ofwind chimes clinked out soft melodies. Farther down, Mango’s lilacs were particularly sweet.
    At the gallery I was surprised to find the front door not only unlocked, but wide open. Easing inside the dark room I paused to listen. The moon spilled eerie shadows across the purple-breasted women and I forced out a shaky “¿Hola?”
    Nothing.
    I walked toward the hall. Widow Greenbaum was sitting on Hector’s stool in a florescent beam cast from the studio doorway. She turned at the sound of creaking floorboards and reached out one hand to me while she dabbed a Kleenex to her eyes with the other. I slipped my hand into hers and she squeezed it too tight.
    “What’s wrong?” I said. She tilted her head toward the studio, directing me to look inside.
    Hector.
    He knelt on the floor, bent over a canvas. Paint tubes were scattered by his side, the colors spilling, blending right on the linoleum. With his left hand he traced the scars on his neck, up his jaw. The half ear. The dead eye. With his right fingers he scooped up orange, purple, green, whatever colors he sensed were right and slid them onto his painting. His motions were timid, even holy. Widow Greenbaum nodded in silence as if she knew exactly what each dab of black, each magenta streak meant.
    It was too much to see. For several minutes all I could do was squeeze my eyes shut and listen to the sliding of paint. When I